


And Still, You Stand

by Xoxo_Sadie21



Category: Spider-Man (Video Game 2018)
Genre: Exhaustion, F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-22
Updated: 2018-10-22
Packaged: 2019-08-05 19:48:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16373933
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xoxo_Sadie21/pseuds/Xoxo_Sadie21





	And Still, You Stand

The human body is a weak and fragile thing. When it can’t take the stress it withstands, it breaks, shatters, suffers. When it isn’t taken care of, it will grow enervated, and it will become nothing but a vessel. 

Exhaustion hits you with full force. You feel lightheaded, you have these awful mood swings, your metabolism slows down — even your heart becomes fragile. 

It starts with the headaches. You are hovering over a blank piece of paper and a sharpened pencil. Nothing in this moment can take you away from the dull ache you feel at the base of your skull, or the queasiness that swims through you. You feel drained of energy, and you don’t even think you can use what little power you have left to lift the pencil.

You are entirely incompetent. 

You are massaging your temples, now. Eyes are half-lidded and bloodshot. The ticking of the clock next to you seems louder the more your head pounds. Your assignments are untouched and will continue to be that way until you can figure out a way to force yourself to do… anything. 

Defeat sits laborious on your shoulders, and you breathe slowly with shaky puffs of air. A wetness touches your cheek, and you inspect with your fingers. You are crying. You are crying and you don’t think you can stop the tears from falling, or the dramatic quiver of your lips. You sniffle and your face twists in a lethargic anguish ilk. 

You want to sleep it off. You want to turn off the blinding lights, and crawl underneath your blankets and you want to  _sleep_. But you know not even this exhaustion, this hopelessness cannot be resolved by sleeping, despite your numerous replies to anyone who asks you  _what is wrong_. You simply reply with, “I’m just tired.” and they tell you that maybe you just need to rest, but you know better. You have mastered the damn near perfect replica of someone who is  _fine_ , when in reality — you are  _not_. And they believe you. 

Except Peter. 

Peter is the one person you can never pretend with. He’s the one who can see right through your lies, your barrier of fraudulent reassurances. Peter is like the part of you that knows nothing is fine, the part that keeps trying to break through, the part you so desperately want to keep hidden to keep yourself from becoming this beacon of vulnerability. 

You do not hide from him. 

You do attempt to, at least, but he knows you  _too_  well. He’s your best friend, your boyfriend, your personal human diary. Peter is undoubtedly the one person you could never lie to. So, why do you try? 

You try because Peter is too soft, and all you are is wilting daisies and razor blades. You try because he deserves someone who is pure — just like him — and sunshine, someone who can be the first one to smile that infectious, contagious smile and make his stomach explode with an entire zoo full of animals. 

Peter is simply too warm, and you fear that if he touches you the grotesque frost would consume him. You do not want his warmth to fade, you want to keep that warmth. His warmth is your safe haven. 

Your eyes close to that repeating thought, and you lower your head onto the desk before you. Soon, the weight of your inadmissible exhaustion dominates you, and you fall into a slumber. 

-

-

-

Ever since Peter told you about his alter-ego, he never makes it a point to climb through the window. There is no need. Plus, it’s tedious. 

As he walks through the front door of your shared apartment, he is met with silence. He stops and looks around, not seeing you in the living room nor the kitchen, but he doesn’t panic. Lord knows he has done his fair share of freaking out when it comes to your safety. If he listens close enough, he can hear the faint  _thump thump_  of your heartbeat, he can feel your presence as if his soul is connected to yours, and he can smell your perfume — that knee-weakening scent that always causes a oracular flutter in his chest. 

God, he’s so smitten with you even after all this time. 

You are  _it_  for him. 

With his suit thrown hastily over his shoulder, he limps further into the vicinity. His senses are on high alert — he is attune with everything; the low spiral of the ceiling fan in the living room, the dim lighting coming from your work room down the hall, the temperate of the room. 

His senses never really stop processing things when he enters a room with you in it. 

Eyes alight with skepticism, he limps his way to your office. He figures that’s where you are, and works on calming his heart. “[Y/N]?” He receives no reply, and before he can panic, he is staring at your sleeping figure, slumped over your desk. By the looks of it, you were just slipping into your languor. Every few seconds he catches the slightest jerk or twitch of your leg or your hand, and the subtle flitter of your eyelids, and the most heart-melting blubbering of your little snores. 

He feels his chest constrict at the sight, and his entire body feels immobile. He cannot move — he doesn’t want to disturb the moment. 

Even though the sight of you fast asleep, cheek squishing to the blank piece of paper, pulls desperately on his heartstrings, he feels that he should carry you to bed. With little argument, he sighs softly and tiptoes over to you after setting his suit and mask down. 

One of his arms slide under your thighs, and the other wraps around your back before he lifts you up in his arms as careful as he can. He knows that if he is not cautious enough then you might wake up because you’re just that stubborn, but god help him, you stay asleep and only curl into his chest. Your brows furrow and bump together, and you mumble something incoherently under your breath, but you don’t wake. 

He smiles and presses a kiss to your temple. At that, the corners of your lips lift a millimeter, and he feels the air in his lungs hitch or stop or quicken — he can’t tell, every part of him is focused on you. 

You really have no clue the kind of effect you have on him. 

He walks down the hall, taking slow and quiet steps, and then nudges your bedroom door open with his elbow, careful not to make much noise. You shift in his arms, and he freezes in the middle of your shared room, feeling his heart drop down to his stomach. He waits, letting out a breath when all you do is curl further into him, and clutch onto the front of his shirt. 

As he finally lowers you onto the bed, you immediately turn over and snuggle into the blankets. You are truly a sight to see and he feels no shame in watching you fall deeper into your slumber. 

There is this fleeting thought so resolute that titters across his mind, and he frowns. He knows you haven’t been yourself this week, and he knows that you are trying, but he can’t help but notice the little things about you that tell him you are exhausted, tired beyond belief. He notices the dark circles under your eyes, the way your skin feels different when he touches you with tender fingers, how many times you yawn during the day. 

His heart aches. 

“Pete?” 

His eyes widen when he hears the tribulation in your tone, and he acts instantly by climbing on the bed, and reaching for your hand. “I’m here.” You don’t respond, but you do grip onto his hand, fingers curving into the creases of his  own. “How are you feeling?” 

“I’m tired.” You whisper, voice gaining a heaviness he knows all too well. 

“I know,” he replies, eyes raking over your form. Your back is facing away from him, so he doesn’t see your face. “You should sleep some more.” 

“Sleep  _with_  me.” You’re quick to reply, pulling on his hand in attempts to prompt him to stay. “I don’t think I can sleep knowing you’re not next to me.” 

He complies without a moment’s hesitation, and lays down on his back. You press your back into his chest, and bring his hands over to rest on your stomach, interlocking them with your own. 

It goes quiet, and the only thing he can hear is the steady beat of your heart and his combined. 

With half-lidded eyes, you bring his hand up to your lips and kiss his knuckles. It was your way of telling him that you missed him, and when he runs his thumb over your tinier hand that fits perfectly in his, it was  _his_  way of reciprocating of the thoughts that go through your head. 

You stare attentively at the hand that was interlaced with your own, lips parting when you notice a few scratches and bruises over his knuckles. 

Peter feels your entire body tense, and he knows what is coming next, but he lets you ask the question you want to ask with bated breaths. 

“I wanna clean these for you, can I?” He feels you shift, and before you can move away, he keeps you grounded in his arms. He doesn’t want you wasting your energy on something he can easily fix himself. 

“Not necessary. I can do it later.” He urges softly, hoping to lull you back into a peaceful sleep. He wants you to take a break, a much needed and extensive break. 

“Pete…” 

“I’m fine, you don’t have to worry about me,” you stay quiet, and he looks down at you in his arms. With a heaved sigh, he continues. “I didn’t mean to drag you into my mess.” 

Your brows furrow at this, and you sink further into his chest. “You’re mess will always be my mess—” you pause, and bite your lower lip. “We agreed on that when we got together.” 

“But—”

“No buts, Bugboy.” 

And he is laughing that heart-stopping, beautiful laugh. That laugh that has the power to stop someone in their tracks, and just…  _listen_  to it. But of course you’re too busy trying to understand the reasoning behind it. 

“Why are you laughing?” You ask, completely caught off-guard. You turn around and plant your arms on his chest, still feeling the way his child-like laughter vibrates through you. And you notice the cuts and bruises on his face, heart shattering at the sight. “Peter, this  _isn’t_  funny.” 

“It’s not, it’s not.” His laughter dies down when he catches the forlorn expression on your face. “Hey, I’m alright. I swear.” You don’t say anything, and he coos this time, reaching over to brush a strand of your hair behind your ear. “How about this? You get some sleep, and then I’ll let you clean me up when you wake up, yeah?”

Your facial muscles relax and you pout, but he knows that the bargain has caught your attention. “Promise?” 

“I pinkie promise,” he holds out his hand, sticking out his pinkie finger for you to wrap yours around. He waits patiently, face softening when you shyly bring your hand up and interlock your little pinkie around his larger one. He notices the glow in your cheeks, the minuscule curve of your lips or how your eyes follow every movement of his hand as it meets yours. “Now, please get some sleep.”

“I’ll sleep, but only for a little bit.” You speak through a yawn, and with your pinkie still entangled around his, you lower your head onto his chest. His other arm drapes gently over your back, pulling you closer and you mumble something under your breath, something he can’t understand. You repeat it once more, through bleary focus and anemic movements, eyes fluttering shut. “I’m glad you’re okay, Bugboy.” 

He finds himself staring at you subconsciously with an ache in his chest, knowing that you are merely a fragile little thing. You are small, and vulnerable, and you are too precious in this God forsaken world, but he is proud of you. He is proud of how you’re still here even through the obscurity — the erroneous and gross things that surround you. 

He is proud. 

He is so, so,  _so_  proud because  _you still_   _stand_.


End file.
